


Sand in the Feathers, Rain on the Scarf

by PerhapsSeeker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Adventure~, Case, F/F, F/M, Gen, Heaven, Hell, Here there be dragons, M/M, Magic, Multi, Other, Wing!lock, sassiness, sorcery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerhapsSeeker/pseuds/PerhapsSeeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The soldier stands among the fallen men, whose skin is white as the bones sticking out of their blood splattered skin. He is both the only survivor and the one that led them to this battle. The army never trained these men for the evil they faced today. Hell, the army didn’t even KNOW of the evil. But their captain did. </p><p>And for that, he is sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sand in the Feathers, Rain on the Scarf

The soldier stands among the fallen men, whose skin is white as the bones sticking out of their blood splattered skin. He is both the only survivor and the one that led them to this battle. The army never trained these men for the evil they faced today. Hell, the army didn’t even KNOW of the evil. But their captain did. And for that, he is sorry.  
The demons that men see on this battlefield are real. So incredibly real.  
Staggering in the sand, among the dead innocence, he looks to the sky in search of comfort or help. He’s testing the winds, reaching out a shaking hand in hopes of finding one that brings him what he needs. Blood drips from his arm, down the wound from his shoulder that burns like hellfire.

The sun beats down on him, causing his skin to drip sweat and grow dark. He wipes his brow and lets out a heavy sigh. Shifting uncomfortably, the figure grips his shoulder and looks for his firearm. It had been thrown away in the fight and used against him… such a sin it is to use a gun on its owner.  
His feathers dance across the puddle of blood, pirouetting across the red pool. The broken wings weigh him down, too tattered from the fight to even begin on picking him up. They were meant for protection rather than flight anyway. His marginal coverts are the color of the bark on an oak tree, gradually turning to the color of the blood splattered sand as the feathers become secondary and primary. If he could lift them, he would look like a godsend, an angel walking the Earth. But alas, he is merely limping now, struggling to stay aloft. Bowing his head, the man staggers to the duffel bag away from the carnage. The men, when their eyes were still bright with the game of soldier instead of clouded with the horror of death, had mocked him for never taking it off.  
“I bet you even sleep with that, Cap’n.”  
“He does! I’ve seen him! Cuddles it like a teddy bear!”  
Then they would clang their beer bottles together, laughing jovially because they embarrassed their leader. Soon he would laugh along with them, enjoying that he was among friends.

Mostly pure men, hardly out of their youth, litter the ground and the sight makes him sick. Pulling up his revolver from the sand, he holsters it. The metal is burning against his tan skin, it weighing heavier on his hip now from the dark acts it had recently given in to. As he picks up his bag, the wind picks up, blowing the sand even faster around him. The feathers turn to dust, disappearing, leaving him the human that his regiment had believed him to be. The only evidence left of the wings is the tattoo image, forever burned to his skin. They reach out, extending and frame his back and arms.  
Rolling his shoulders and putting a hand over his wound, he limps towards the sound of helicopters, a sandstorm burying the bodies of men that were marked for an untimely death a long time ago.

The Captain collapses before he even reaches the helicopter. He can hear more men, shouting his name.

"WATSON!"

"DOCTOR WATSON!"

"GET HIM IN. QUICKLY!"

"WHERE THE HELL IS HIS UNI-"

Everything fades to black, and for a moment he's nearly swallowed by a darkness of his own…

~

Doctor John H. Watson wakes up in a cold sweat in a small bed, in a small flat, in a very small piece of London. Here, he stares at the ceiling until it no longer is showing the milky white judgmental eyes. It's been exactly five months since he's been let back out into society again and the memory of his past duties still refuse to leave him to sleep. Turning his head, he lets out a heavy sigh.

"Goddammit."

His right wing is out, it brushing against the opposing wall. He's knocked over the wardrobe again.

John's left wing is draped around him like a blanket, it aching at the uncomfortable position it has been forced into. Inhaling deeply, a gentle breeze drifts around his bedroom, ruffling the curtains and the sketches on his desk. It lingers around the right wing for a moment, caressing the ruffled, blood stained, sand colored feathers. Slowly they begin to fade and John rolls his shoulder to help it along. The same happens for his left wing.

Once everything is hidden away, back into his tattoo, John staggers up and stretches. His shoulder twinges painfully and he can't help but grimace as he remembers the dark bullet that shattered his clavicle. The soldier's hand ghosts over the scar before disappearing to go take a shower. From the bathroom window it looks to be another dreary day.

Perfect day for a walk in the park.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Nope. *sigh*


End file.
